


Guardian

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Temporary Character Death, guardian angel Stiles, wing fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Derek had made it a practice not to think about his life before too much.  He didn’t think about the stars.  He didn’t think about imaginary friends, or Kate, or Stiles.  Or any of it.Which, he supposed, was why it all took him so completely by surprise.And why, when a too familiar voice whispered in his ear, “I wouldn’t get on that bus if I were you,” Derek obeyed, out of shock.And why, when he turned around to see Stiles Stilinski standing three feet away with his arms crossed, and a painfully familiar smirk on his face, his only real thought was,It finally happened.  You’ve finally lost your mind.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this idea for a while, and started writing it. Updates will hopefully be quick, but it depends on my beta's schedule. I didn't mark major character death because even though Stiles is dead, he's still corporeal, and it has a happy ending with Sterek endgame.
> 
> I just like guardian angel fics, so I'm writing one lol.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta for help with spag and formatting, any remaining mistakes are all mine.

When Derek was four years old, he had an imaginary friend named Charlie. Charlie was a werefox—something Derek would find ironic years later, but at the time, Derek just really liked foxes. Charlie was almost always in fox form, though at night he would shift into a little boy and talk with Derek and watch the stars. When he first showed up, he told Derek he was there to protect him. They could never touch, but just having Charlie nearby was enough. His fox guardian. Sometimes he’d come along stargazing with Derek and his dad—it was their thing, stargazing. Derek’s little hand would fit perfectly in his dad’s palm, and his dad would lead him through the woods he knew like the back of his hand, human or not. They’d find a clearing in the trees, and his dad would set up a telescope, and they’d look at everything their tiny piece of the universe offered them.

Charlie would look sometimes, too. Later they’d talk for long, long hours about everything, and how smart Derek’s dad was, and how brave he was to be such a strong, happy man in a pack full of wolves.

Derek’s parents humored him for as long as Charlie stuck around. They’d set out a dog bowl for him, because Charlie liked to eat in his fox form. Their dog, Sasha, would of course eat Charlie’s portion, but Derek would insist his fox friend was just hungry.

Charlie went away when Derek was nine and a half. “He had to leave,” Derek told his parents with a shrug. “He said I don’t need him anymore.”

He wasn’t mentioned again, and Derek didn’t really think about him again. Not until the house was on fire. Derek woke to someone’s hand in his, tugging him from his bed, pulling him from the burning house. Somehow, he and Laura got out. Derek really only got one good look at Charlie who hadn’t changed, after all this time—at the brown hair and soft blue eyes, and sad look on his face like he had failed. Then he was gone. It had been years, but Derek knew it was the last time he’d ever see him.

He curled up in Laura’s arms, a hundred feet from the fire, with the stench of smoke and wolfsbane, and death all around them. He’d never felt so alone, or so bitter that Charlie hadn’t been real, hadn’t actually been there to protect him. Charlie might have saved him, but it just meant he would suffer this loss, this agony, completely alone.

They had to run, before the hunters and the authorities arrived. If they didn’t run, they’d take Derek, and they’d find some way to blame the wolves. And if the hunters came—and Derek knew from the wolfsbane, from the fire, from everything, that it had been Kate—if the hunters came, they’d finish the job.

Derek let it all go. Beacon Hills. Charlie. His parents. His pack. Everything.

He hadn’t ever expected to return.

\--- 

Then there was Peter. And Laura was dead. There was Scott McCall and Stiles. Then came Erica and Boyd, and Jackson. Then Cora came back, and everything was like a landslide of shit Derek couldn’t stop, as hard as he tried. One right after the other, he was given hope, and it was ripped away until he stood there over Stiles’ body which couldn’t pull through the demon fox’s hold on him.

Derek closed his eyes and saw the chessboard. He reached up behind his ear and touched the symbol there, and he knew he’d failed.

He didn’t hang around for the funeral. He couldn’t watch the anguish on the pack’s face. He couldn’t accept the fact that Stiles—for all that he had gotten under Derek’s skin, irritated him beyond belief—was gone. Stiles deserved better. He’d been so much like Derek’s father that it created an ache in him he’d been unprepared to feel. Stiles, the human, the brave one, the one who saved everyone all the time. Even Derek, regardless of how much Derek had shoved him away. And it wasn’t really his intent, it never had been. But Derek knew what happened to humans who were too brave.

They ended up in the ground, just like this.

So he ran again. Scott was the Alpha now. He had a pack, he would…he would figure it out.

Derek would stay just as long as Scott needed him to neutralize the threat, and then he’d go.

Scott started his senior year of high school, and the Nemeton was quiet, and it was time.

Derek packed his things into a bag, put the property he owned in Beacon Hills in Scott’s name—for the pack. Then he headed back to New York, because there was some semblance of a life there, waiting for him. There was an apartment he still owned, full of dusty old effects of the life he and Laura had tried to build. There was a Bachelor’s Degree, and a few Master’s Programs applications he hadn’t finished turning in yet. 

He could start over. Be something else. Omega, sure. Maybe not forever, but for now. It would be okay. It was obvious Derek hadn’t been destined for a life like most wolves. Darkness followed him, and death, and tragedy. He could accept it, for whatever it was, for whatever it was worth.

\--- 

Three years passed, and Beacon Hills was fine—a few issues here and there, but they never needed him back. And Derek’s life was quiet. He dated a few times, it never lasted, but a warm body in his bed from time didn’t hurt.

Lonely? Sure. 

Omega still? Yes.

But everyone was safe, and he could comfort himself in knowing that.

Derek had made it a practice not to think about his life before too much. He didn’t think about the stars. He didn’t think about imaginary friends, or Kate, or Stiles. Or any of it.

Which, he supposed, was why it all took him so completely by surprise.

And why, when a too familiar voice whispered in his ear, “I wouldn’t get on that bus if I were you,” Derek obeyed, out of shock.

And why, when he turned around to see Stiles Stilinski standing three feet away with his arms crossed, and a painfully familiar smirk on his face, his only real thought was, _It finally happened. You’ve finally lost your fucking mind._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided shorter chapters mean faster updates, so posting what my beta had done for me. Any errors or formatting issues are all on me. My braille display doesn't really show how the page is laid out so if you notice anything weird about paragraphs, feel free to let me know so I can fix it.

Clutching the cup of coffee between both hands, Derek stared across the table at the chair, occupied by a dead man. The late afternoon sun lit Stiles’ hair like a halo, the length the same as it had been when they’d lowered his body into the ground. Not that Derek knew—he hadn’t been there. But he remembered a little too vividly what Stiles looked like the last time Derek saw him alive. The color was lighter now, not the harsh, demon-black, but the soft deep brown of the teenaged kid who hadn’t really asked for any of this.

Derek licked his lips, opened his mouth, then closed it again when words didn’t appear.

“You got a phone?” Stiles asked.

Derek’s eyes widened, and he reached for the cell in his pocket before realizing he was just blindly obeying the figment of his imagination.

“No one can see me,” Stiles said. “Turn off your ringer and pretend like you’re having a conversation. I mean, unless you want to look like the crazy dude having a conversation with his cup of coffee.”

Derek’s jaw clenched. He found himself oddly annoyed that his sudden, imaginary dead friend was so practical. His fingers tightened on his phone, but he didn’t raise it to his ear. Instead he swallowed down most of his coffee, still unable to take his eyes away.

Maybe this was his own fault, punishment for not being there in the end. Stiles and him had never been—well, they’d never really been friends. Life-saving and all that just sort of came with the territory. He was an obnoxious teenager. But he was still part of the pack and well, shit. _Shit_. If this wasn’t Derek going insane, maybe it was some sort of supernatural bullshit trying to punish him for not being there. For not saving Stiles. For running away, in the end.

“Come on, dude,” Stiles said.

“Don’t call me dude,” was Derek’s under his breath reply. Then he stood up from the table and fled, the sound of Stiles’ painfully familiar laughter following him.

\--- 

He didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, and he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He was betting on the latter, since concentration was damn near impossible, and he turned his head at every sound, expecting to see the ethereal form of his apparent eternal torment, dogging his steps.

He got Thai for dinner and took the fragrant smelling bags up to his apartment.

He settled in, and in hindsight he supposed it was his own fault for letting his guard down or feeling like it was over when he let himself relax into the couch. He was bringing a huge pile of noodles to his mouth. He blinked, and the chair was empty. He blinked again, and Stiles was there.

“Oh my god, don’t die. That kind of defeats this whole purpose,” Stiles said, flailing his arms around a little.

Derek, who was only slightly choking, thumped himself on the sternum with a closed fist, and managed to dislodge the food which was currently blocking his windpipe. He gasped for air a little, and when his world stopped spinning, his eyes came to a focus on Stiles who actually looked a little worried.

“Seriously, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said. Automatic. Perfunctory. The pain of familiarity was almost too much to bear for that second. He cleared his throat and said, “I don’t even know why the fuck I’m talking to a figment of my imagination.”

“I don’t know whether I should resent the fact that you can’t tell fantasy from reality, or flattered that you think you’re hallucinating me, of all people,” Stiles said with a small grin.

Derek dragged a hand down his face, then shoved the boxes of food away from him. The thought of eating now just turned his stomach to stone. “I need to call…someone.”

“Werewolf psychologist,” Stiles suggested with a grin. “Damn, do they have that now? Shit, can you imagine how much of your emotional constipation could have been laxatived out if we could have found one for you like…years ago?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles blinked at him, his big, doe-eyes almost sad, still pretty. “Aww sourwolf, you did miss me.”

“Please stop,” Derek said, and he finally let the pain eek into his tone. “Whatever this is just…please. Stop.”

“It’s not…I’m not here to hurt you, Derek,” Stiles said. The joking tone left his voice completely, and he leaned over his bent knees. “I’m here because you’re sort of in trouble.”

“Stiles,” he said tiredly.

But the imaginary bane of his existence wasn’t hearing any of it. “Dude, remember the bus? That I told you not to get on?”

Derek grunted, and then startled when the remote on the table flew from the top, and onto his lap. “What the fuck.”

“Turn on the TV. Put on the local news, okay?”

“I don’t…do I even have local news?” Derek watched Netflix, and sometimes Hulu, and he wasn’t even sure he had cable but…

He did what Stiles said—I mean, why the hell not? Why not take orders from a dead guy?

The TV blared to life, and on the screen was an accident. A bus. On fire.

His bus, he knew, without even really needing to _know_. His throat felt tight, and right then he just knew he couldn’t accept any of this. Maybe they hadn’t actually defeated the Nogitsune. Maybe this was a delayed aspect of being marked, of not saving Stiles. Maybe one of the pack was a witch now and was pissed at Derek for bailing.

He clicked off the TV, threw the remote down, and left the room.

\--- 

Laying in bed, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, but the place still kind of smelled like Laura, and their old life before everything went to shit—or well, worse shit, anyway. Part of him wanted to get up, to poke his head into the living room and see if the manifestation of Stiles was still there, but the bigger part of him was way too terrified to explore because what if…

What if all this was real.

What if all this was…

“You can’t keep running from me, you know.”

Derek sighed, rolling onto his side to look at where Stiles had curled up in an old armchair. He had his feet crooked up on the arm, and his head was lolled to the side, staring at Derek lazily.

“Is this the part where you sit here in my bedroom and start singing Henry the VIII until I give you what you want?” Derek deadpanned.

Stiles perked up, looking like a hundred birthdays had just come at once. “Oh my God. Is _this_ where you tell me that you, Derek Hale, are into sad romcoms starring Patrick Swayze?”

“I hate you,” Derek muttered, and turned his head away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “Just stop, just stop. Just stop.”

“It doesn’t work like that, you know. I didn’t even want this assignment. I knew it was going to freak your ass out too much. But apparently you have a long history of needing us.”

Unable to contain his confusion and frustration with the entire situation, Derek pushed up on his elbow and narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “Will you make sense please? Because right now I’m seeing the imaginary figure of a kid I saw murdered by a fox demon almost a decade ago so…”

“I’m not imaginary,” Stiles replied softly.

Derek pushed all the way up, letting his feet hang off the bed. After a long moment of deliberation, he stretched his hand out. “Prove it.”

Stiles stared at him, and there was a look of sadness, even regret, on his face. “I can’t,” he said.

Derek flopped back and covered his face, groaning. “I knew it. I knew it. This is probably the first sign of going feral. I thought I could last a little longer but…”

“Derek, you’re not going feral. I mean, okay when they told me that you were an Omega and had been all this time, I was a little worried I’d find you here drooling and snarling and half wolf but…I mean, it’s you, buddy? Right? You’ve got this.”

“Apparently not, if whatever the fuck sent you here thinks I need some dead guy talking in cryptic circles in my bedroom at midnight,” Derek retorted.

“Okay…fair,” Stiles said.

Something about his tone, the familiarity of it, the painful reminder of what he’d failed to save, hit him hard, and he stood up. His eyes flashed blue, furious, and his fingers curled into his palms. “Whatever you are, can you please just…not look like him? If you want to…do whatever. Save me, whatever the fuck you’re here for. Can you just look like someone else. Anyone else, okay? I can’t…”

Stiles face fell, his eyes wide, and almost teary. “Hey, Derek. Look…I can’t…it is me, okay? I’m…like a little bit dead, but I’m here, alright?”

With a growl of frustration, Derek’s hand shot out, intent on grabbing Stiles by the shirt. Only his hand met nothing—just air, and the back of the tattered armchair where his claws dug into the fabric. He pulled away, staring at his open palm.

Then his gaze darted to the seat, where a single, white feather lay.

Derek swallowed thickly, backed up, then left the apartment. He wasn’t going to sleep, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be there.


End file.
